


Broken Wings

by Sannguine



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Wing Kink, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 13:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6807355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sannguine/pseuds/Sannguine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Fro—- Fran, please, <i>please</i>, this isn’t funny anymore. The Prince doesn’t like when you play games with him. It’s only fun when he plays them on you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Wings

**Author's Note:**

> b26 prompt fill for "wings" on Tumblr

There is no laughter when it happens. There is no jesting or teasing, no antagonising, bullying, or anything otherwise associated with the Prince when he witnesses the fall.

In fact, his world stops for several seconds.His _heart_ stops even longer.

He can’t stop himself before he’s rushing over to his lovers side, knives at the ready and slicing through three men on his way there. He refuses, absolutely _refuses_ to let them die here, not after everything they’ve been through together.

He won’t allow it. He _can’t_ allow it.

His dark wings flicker and pulsate behind his back, Storm flames radiating around him, striking at those that come too near. The same intensity surely burns in his eyes under his fringe, and their enemies should be thankful that they cannot see the malice in them.

When they are finally in the clear, Bel is hunched over Fran’s limp body, wings spread out as far as they could allow, flames disintegrating anything that comes too close. It’s tiring, exhausting to have them out like this, but for the sake of getting to Fran he _doesn’t care_.

He refuses to look at the mess of wings laying in shambles on the ground beneath Fran’s body. Refuses to look a the way they are matted and covered in blood, twisted and bent and _fuck they shouldn’t even look like that_. Refuses to look at how his right wing is pretty much completely torn off, hanging grotesquely by the skin on his back, which oozes blood and Mist flames, trying to hold it together by the sinew.

The wings are more so an illusion, but the fact remains that they are _apart_ of Fran, and anything that would do _this much damage_ , illusion or no, would leave him in serious agony.

If not worse.

“Froggy, get up. This isn’t the place for small, amphibious creatures to sleep. That’s what the manor is for. Get up, they’re dead, we can move now.”

When Fran doesn’t budge, doesn’t pipe up with the usual slew of insults, Bel tries again, wrapping his arms around Fran’s bloodied body and pulling him up, gently, so fucking gently for someone of his nature, cradling him close, watching as brittle feathers and bones break off and turn to ash before his eyes.

“Fro—- Fran, please, _please_ , this isn’t funny anymore. The Prince doesn’t like when you play games with him. It’s only fun when he plays them on you.”

Still there is no response, only the quickening pulse in Bel’s veins, eating away at any last slivers of resolve he might have had. Fran remains limp and lifeless in his arms, and for just a moment, a brief second, Bel bargains off his own life in exchange for Fran’s because Prince’s are suppose to _protect_ those they love and yet that which he cherishes _most_ lays dead in his arms.

Closing his eyes, he kisses Fran three times; twice over each eyelid, and once across bloodied lips, and whispers his adoration.

When he opens his eyes again, all he sees is red.


End file.
